Vulpes’ last moans were guttural, broken apart in his throat. His back arched and ached from arching; muscles protested the movement, bones creaking, popping, screaming in the wake of frenzied twisting. His eyes squeezed shut, so that he didn’t have to witness the triumph in her eyes, but her afterimage lingered amongst the bursts of color. He could feel the slickness of his come on his stomach, dipping into his naval, inciting a shiver from him. Her fingers scooped some up and he could hear her licking it from her fingers.
His eyes were still closed. He didn’t want to face them or her—didn’t want to see the evidence of his orgasm. She withdrew from him, leaving him cold and bared to all; he didn’t even have the strength to close his legs. What did it matter, anyway?
Sweat trickled down his chin as he laid there, eyes blinking open to take in the full light of the sun. He turned his head. She was standing tall, clothes and armor back on, red hair dull in the brilliance of the sun, face grotesque, giddy and of course, triumphant.
Her boots were close to his hand. And he was lying at her feet, open and bare and bruised, like he was hers.
He was. She won and she never needed his surrender.
“Take a good long look, boys. This will be you. It will be your ass on display if you get too rebellious for my tastes. I own the fucking Legion now.”
Her voice boomed in his ears. He winced. He wondered when he will manage to get the strength to kill himself because he cannot see any point in staying alive, now that Caesar was gone and she was here. He wondered if she’ll let him. He coughed and it brought up blood.
His coughs brought attention back to himself.
“Get him out of here. I don’t want to deal with him right now.”
They hauled him up by his armpits, dragging him away from the stand, but not before she ran a hand down his face, saying good bye for now. His head lolled and he blearily blinked his eyes, the camp flittering in and out of his vision. Hands were on him, he dizzily thought, hands were on his naked flesh and he should care, but he didn’t.
The Mighty Become Slaves 6b/?
His eyes were still closed. He didn’t want to face them or her—didn’t want to see the evidence of his orgasm. She withdrew from him, leaving him cold and bared to all; he didn’t even have the strength to close his legs. What did it matter, anyway?
Sweat trickled down his chin as he laid there, eyes blinking open to take in the full light of the sun. He turned his head. She was standing tall, clothes and armor back on, red hair dull in the brilliance of the sun, face grotesque, giddy and of course, triumphant.
Her boots were close to his hand. And he was lying at her feet, open and bare and bruised, like he was hers.
He was. She won and she never needed his surrender.
“Take a good long look, boys. This will be you. It will be your ass on display if you get too rebellious for my tastes. I own the fucking Legion now.”
Her voice boomed in his ears. He winced. He wondered when he will manage to get the strength to kill himself because he cannot see any point in staying alive, now that Caesar was gone and she was here. He wondered if she’ll let him. He coughed and it brought up blood.
His coughs brought attention back to himself.
“Get him out of here. I don’t want to deal with him right now.”
They hauled him up by his armpits, dragging him away from the stand, but not before she ran a hand down his face, saying good bye for now. His head lolled and he blearily blinked his eyes, the camp flittering in and out of his vision. Hands were on him, he dizzily thought, hands were on his naked flesh and he should care, but he didn’t.